For birds that flew alone
And scattered sought their food
Gather in whirring bands;—
Starlings, about the lands
Spring cherished, summer made good,
Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.
But above that windy sound
A deeper note of fear
All daylight without cease
Troubles the country peace;
War birds, high in the air,
Airplanes shadow the ground.
Seawards to Africa
Starlings with joy shall turn,
War birds to skies of strife,
Where Death is ever at Life;
High in mid-air may burn
Great things that trouble day.
Their time is perilous,
Governed by Fate obscure;
But when our April comes
About the thatch-eaved homes,—
Cleaving sweet air, the sure
Starlings shall come to us.
OLD MARTINMAS EVE
The moon, one tree, one star,
Still meadows far,
Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white.
November’s night
Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see
Again that moon and star-supporting tree.
If some most quiet tune had spoken then;
Some silver thread of sound; a core within
That sea-deep silentness, I had not known
Ever such joy in peace, but sound was none—
Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.
AFTER MUSIC
Why, I am on fire now, and tremulous
With sense of Beauty long denied; the first
Opening of floodgate to the glorious burst
Of Freedom from the Fate that limits us
To work in darkness pining for the light,
Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air,
Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bare
White heat of silver passion fiercely bright!
While sweating at the foul task, we can taste
No Joy that’s clean, no Love but something lets
It from its power; the wisest soul forgets
What’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste.
Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell.
If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell.
THE TARGET
I shot him, and it had to be
One of us! ’Twas him or me.
“Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blame
Me, for you would do the same.